Finally, the Flesh Reflects the Madness Within
by moriartsy
Summary: Old habits die hard. Sometimes, they come back to life. (John cuts himself after Sherlock's death. And before.)
1. chapter one

_a/n: so i have this problem where i unload all my psychological hang-ups onto my favorite characters. sorry, john._

_major trigger warnings for self-harm - it's described pretty explicitly and john says a couple not-very-nice things about it. also, john sometimes talks about sherlock's "suicide" in pretty blunt terms, so tread carefully, if that will upset/disturb you._

_hope you like it!_

###

...

finally

the flesh

reflects the

madness within

_a sherlock fanfiction_

###

_"If you're going through Hell, keep going."_ - Winston Churchill

###

He doesn't really mean to start doing it again. In fact, he hardly even realizes that he is doing it again - it takes him two or three stints before he remembers, _goddammit, I was doing well._

And he _had_ been doing well, very, very well, until his flatmate and best friend had taken a flying leap off a hospital rooftop and cracked his skull on the pavement. That, John supposes, was around when he started doing it again.

It isn't about hurting himself. It never has been.

But if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't really know _what_ it is about. All he knows is that he started doing it in high school when everything that could possibly go wrong did, and he did it every time he had a really difficult exam to pass or essay to write at uni, and he did it that night after coming back to London, after seeing the horror that was war, after being reminded of the look and feel and smell of blood, and he did it when Sherlock Holmes threw himself off a building, and he's been doing it ever since.

_Old habits die hard,_ he figures. _Should have guessed they could come back to life._

John doesn't know _why_ he does it. When something in his brain gets triggered and he decides to start doing it again, there's no discernable pattern. Sometimes, he'll do it after a terribly long day, and sometimes he'll do it after a nice date night with a pretty girl, and sometimes he just does it in the shower or before bed, like it's part of his grooming ritual.

John does it tonight. He watches, tenses during the brief moment when the shallow cut produces nothing, relaxes when suddenly there is a line of crimson on his forearm, sighs as the blood beads up at one corner, then the other, then in a few places in between. Another: deeper, this one, and there's something to show for it when the blood actually _drips,_ not much, just a single drop of redness travelling very slowly to his inner wrist, eventually hitting the heel of his hand.

Perhaps the reason he does it is this: it's mesmerizing. And Sally Donovan thought _Sherlock_ was the freak. What if, in the moment that she had told John to stay away, he'd turned to her and said that he used to enjoy drawing a razor across his body just so he could watch the blood? What would she have said, done? Sherlock had possessed a genius-level intellect to acquit him of his idiosyncrasies. What's John's excuse?

John counts the six new lines on his forearm. Then he tries to count all the other lines - some are scabbed over and angry, those are from a few nights ago; some are brownish and smoother, those are probably from the night Sherlock killed himself; and countless are small and white and untextured, those are from quite a long time ago.

Two weeks earlier, he would have looked at those little white lines with a strange sense of pride. He'd managed to abstain from his sick little habit for years. Now, looking at them, he feels... indifferent. Unaffected, because here he is with a blade in his hands and the blood is mesmerizing and slashing up his wrists again for the first time in years feels so very familiar.

And best of all, he doesn't think about Sherlock Holmes for a _second_ while he does it.

Now he's lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, wearing only a pair of pants, which means that every cut he's ever made is brazenly displayed to the darkness, lines of red and brown and white marring his arms and hips and thighs.

John Watson lies in his bed, thinking about blood and pain and war and most definitely _not_ about his dead best friend.

###

There are periods of abstinence, though they're more out of forgetfulness than recovery. Days when scars and razor blades don't even cross his mind. And then he drowns himself in scarlet a week later to make up for it.

He doesn't try to get better. He doesn't think that stopping the cutting will make anything better.

(Neither will the cutting, for that matter. But he is tired, and it's a paradox he's not prepared to dwell on.)

###

Sometimes, in the dusty, lonely corners of his brain - the dark places he goes to at three in the morning when he's trying desperately to go to sleep, or at three in the afternoon when he's sprawled pathetically on the couch watching bad telly - sometimes, he wonders what Sherlock would have thought or said or done, had he known.

Sherlock could never have caught him in the act, because John hadn't done it in 221B until after he died. But the genius knew _everything._ Even if he never saw a blade or a scar, he could probably deduce it from John's walking pace or the way he held his mobile phone or a certain hair that stood out of place on his head. Sherlock was like that, John knows, and there's a very distinct possibility that he had known about John's old habits from the moment they met at Bart's.

John wonders if Sherlock ever would have said anything, had their friendship not been cut short. He would probably have taken it the wrong way. John can almost hear him jeering, _dull, idiot, transport._

Would he be concerned, or would he brush it off? Perhaps he would assume that it kept John from boredom the same way chasing criminals did. The same way cocaine did, once upon a time, for him; although John wasn't too keen to draw that comparison.

In his mind's eye, John sees his friend's handsome features twist into the same look he'd seen on his sister and parents and some of his girlfriends. First surprise, then confusion and horror, and then, worst of all, pity. He hates the pity the most. He _hates_ it.

Would Sherlock pity him? Would he even care? Some people, John had found over the years, didn't really care. Said it was a phase. A ploy for attention. _What would Sherlock think? If he saw me doing it, would he just tell me to put my coat on, we're going to Angelo's? Lestrade's got a case? Would he continue his nicotine patches, and I continue my cutting, and we both just accept the other's vices and just carry on?_

No. He wouldn't want John to hurt that way. Beneath the sociopathic exterior, he had learned over the years, was something different, something more. There _had_ to be. Underneath the "freak," the "psychopath," there was a different man, a man with a brain _and_ a heart. The look on the detective's face when he saw John strapped to Semtex with a sniper trained on him... there had to be something more there.

John decides he is giving altogether too much thought to a dead man's potential reactions, and gets up off the couch, discards his shirt that's gained a lovely new burgundy design on its sleeve, throws it in the wash and goes upstairs to have a shower, to wash the blood off, to wash Sherlock off.

###

_a/n: this will be a multi-chapter fic. i have the next couple already written, but i'm still working on this story. don't be surprised if this ends up getting abandoned - i may or may not have bitten off more than i can chew._

_feel free to point out any and all errors/stupidities, concrit is welcome, etc., etc._

_idk this probably sucks. i'm sorry._


	2. chapter two

_a/n: i forgot to mention that this is a post-reichenbach reunion fic! if you don't get down with that you'd best leave right about now because. well. it's a post-reichenbach reunion fic._

_there will also be johnlock but i'm not sure in what way or to what extent. could be queerplatonic, could be sexual. we just don't know. so if you are vehemently against any sort of deep emotional bonds between two men, you should probably leave now too._

_go. now. leave. goodbye. ... as for anyone who's left, hope you like this next chapter. cheers._

###

...

finally

the flesh

reflects the

madness within

_a sherlock fanfiction_

###

There aren't words, John finally decides, for the amount of betrayal he feels at this moment.

###

Most of all, it's the way he tries to apologize that makes John want to hit him. The bastard thinks he's fooling John, but John knows Sherlock Holmes never apologizes. This man is an imposter. A fraud, like they'd all been saying for the past three years, three _fucking _years of making tea for one and coming home to an empty flat.

"John, please, I'm so sorry!" he gasps, blotchy face, crocodile tears in his saltwater eyes and all down his stupid cheekbones.

John realizes later that a lot of the things he'd intended to contain within his own mind had actually left his mouth, but it doesn't really matter, because he'd meant every single word and he'd _definitely_ meant to punch the man in the face and scream at him to get out,_ get out, I never want to see your face in this flat again!_

###

Mrs. Hudson comes up an hour later and John just barely manages in time to throw a blanket over his bleeding wrist.

She's crying. He thinks he's crying, too, but isn't entirely sure because all he can think is that that bastard with the too-long hair and the too-stubbly chin and the too-thin body has upset this saintly woman.

She stands in the sitting room awhile, sniffling, making little sounds of sadness that break John's heart, several times opening her mouth to speak before sobbing, "_oh_," and bustling out the door.

She tries again the next morning, and they sit on the sofa together, and she tells John she's sorry.

"I can't believe he would do this to us, to _you_, John, you two always meant so much to each other," she says.

He rubs consoling circles on her back and says "I know, he's awful, terrible," and resists the urge to say that he obviously didn't mean a thing to that psychopath. He doesn't curse or shout in her presence but he does when she leaves. When she leaves, he buries his face in a pillow and sobs, _you son of a bitch, I hate you, I'll never, ever forgive you._

He screams into the pillow and breaks things, smashes the violin and throws chemistry books around. But he doesn't break the skull, because he's gonna give that skull back to the man and tell him to make bloody good use of it because he sure as hell isn't going to have anyone else to talk to after this little stunt.

And that's what it all was: a stunt, just another one of his stupid games, his performances. Sherlock Holmes is clever enough to fake his death, to make everyone believe he's dead and gone, and when he rises from the grave everyone will 'ooh' and 'ahh' at his genius. They'll applaud and whistle, and he'll smirk and take a bow, thank God and his parents and the Academy and most of all himself.

And John hopes all that is enough for him; he hopes the loneliness and freakishness is outweighed by the empty fame and the two-faced praise, because with the way Sherlock Holmes lives his life, with the way he treats people, treats his so-called friends, he's never, _ever _going to have anything more.

There is nothing more beneath the psychopathic exterior, John decides. If John had buried his fingers in the man's cracked skull on that sickening day three years ago and wrenched, he would have opened the bastard up and and found something frigid and hollow inside. Where John had once thought there might be a warmth, a different man, a heart, he would find only blackness within.

John growls, even though a strange part of him hates himself for it, _You're just a sham. Smoke and mirrors, like they all say. A shell of a human. Nothing more._

He's so angry at Sherlock and sad for Mrs. Hudson and horrified at himself that, when he finally goes to bed, he doesn't have the energy to cut. He looks at his bedside drawer, as if to promise the razor there that he'll make up for tonight tomorrow, and then falls into a restless sleep.

###

Sherlock must know what's good for him, because he doesn't show up at the flat for a week. John thinks he's probably staying at Mycroft's, which gives him a laugh. _God knows no one else would have him._

John's at Tesco when the man comes to call, so he walks into 221B to find Sherlock Holmes curled up in his chair (the one that John used to sit in whenever he was missing Sherlock particularly), looking frightened and bewildered and nervous and so forcefully _not like Sherlock_ that John can't suppress a burst of untimely laughter.

John can see the black eye from last week. It's red and green and purple, an almost artistic splash of color on the porcelain of his face. He still looks as haggard, as thin and bony and beat-up as he did a week ago. _Good_, John thinks. He always looked so pristine, so put-together with his perfect curls and suits and cheekbones. It's good seeing him like this, entirely out of his element.

John puts away the groceries and Sherlock comes to hover over him, only speaking when his friend is finished.

"John."

John sighs and begins to climb the stairs. It's only 4.58 p.m. and he wants to go to bed. Unfortunately, the baritone voice follows him.

"John, please look at me."

"No." He shuts his bedroom door in Sherlock's face and begins to strip for bed, but as he suspected it would, the door opens. It creaks loudly, opens very slowly. _Oh, you're timid now, are you? You never had a problem busting in before, I could be in the middle of a wank and you'd throw the door open like it existed only to inconvenience you. Not so brave now, are you, Sherlock?_

"John, you have to listen to me, I never intended for it to go on this long. Moriarty's network was so much bigger than I ever imagined, please, I never wanted to leave you for so long..."

Sherlock's voice quivers and John doesn't have to look over his shoulder to know what the man looks like. He's seen this act, seen it a thousand times, seen the psychopath weeping shamelessly next to a grieving mother just so he could get more information.

Once John's got his pyjamas on, he reaches around Sherlock, switches off the light, and ambles over to his bed.

"...Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and _you_, he was going to hurt you, John, what would you have had me do, John, he was going to hurt my best frien-"

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John is in his bed with his eyes closed. There are no sounds for a bit - John can't tell if it's ten seconds or ten minutes or actually an eternity - but then he hears a final, defeated sniffle, heavy shoes on the wood floor, and the door closes and Sherlock is gone.

John is exhausted.

###

John sits up in his bed after a few hours of sleep with the realization that he never heard Sherlock leave the flat. He looks at his clock: 9.01 p.m. _Bit pathetic, that,_ he thinks. He goes to the bathroom and notices a few tiny hairs in the sink too dark to be his own, deducing that Sherlock must have shaved here while John was asleep.

Sure enough, when he goes downstairs and finds the man drinking tea, making himself right at home, he sees a whiskerless face. _Pity_, John thinks, _it was rather nice seeing you looking like an actual flawed human, while it lasted._

He looks at John from behind his tea, and for just a moment, John thinks he sees the old Sherlock; for just a moment, he sees a calculating look, the look that says 'I know all the reasons why you hate your mother simply by looking at the shape of your eyebrows'; for just a moment, John gets the distinct and familiar feeling that's he's being analyzed.

But then the moment is gone and he's shying away from John and those eyes are flickering around the flat, never staying in one place for long.

John, however, refuses to accommodate his newfound self-consciousness and stations himself in front of Sherlock. The man puts his tea down, stands up, and looks John right in the eye, silent. John speaks.

"Let me ask you something, Sherlock. How long were you planning on letting me believe you were dead? Because you said earlier that you 'never intended for it to go on this long.' Well, how long _did _you think it would last, hm? A month? A week? An hour? Because any of those amounts of time are _too bloody long_ to let your best friend believe he watched you commit suicide."

Sherlock looks like he's been choked. "John, I just needed to keep you saf-"

"I don't give a _damn_, Sherlock! Don't you get that? I don't give a _damn _why you did what you did! You have _no_ idea what that did to me, Sherlock. It killed me, Sherlock. I..."

For whatever reason - the sheer exhaustion that accompanies being in this man's presence, John guesses - his body decides at that very moment that all its energy has been expended, and John drops to his knees, his hands rising to cover his face, and there he is, head in hands and on his knees before a dead fake genius.

John doesn't have to look up to know that Sherlock is confused by this sentimental whiplash. He can practically hear the gears grinding in his head: 'John was frustrated, and then enraged, and now he's crying... What happened?'

What surprises John is that Sherlock doesn't say a word, he simply drops to his knees next to John and wraps his arms around his friend.

At first, John resists, shoves those long skinny arms away angrily, as if to say, 'I can take care of myself, no thanks to you.' But the detective refuses to be pushed away.

They sit on the floor, side-by-side, and eventually John wraps his own arms around Sherlock, and he can't quite tell if he's trying to embrace the man or strangle him, but he doesn't really care, because by God the man is _here_.

###

There aren't words for the amount of betrayal he still feels, and will likely always feel. Sherlock Holmes died, horribly and bloodily and suicidally. John knew that to be true for three years, and then the man showed up at his doorstep and told John that he didn't. He didn't die. And there aren't words for the amount of relief John feels about that.

###

It was 9.37 p.m. when they first sat on the floor, locked in an embrace. After a good deal of silence, they talk long into the night and into the early morning. Sherlock tells John about his encounters with Moriarty's web of intrigue, about all the criminals he purged the world of, the murderers and thieves that no one will ever have to worry about again, and about the self-sacrifice he endured and his devotion to his best friend and how he did it all so the world would be a safer place for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John.

John, throughout the stories, the retellings of impossibly complex and brilliant schemes, the confessions of deep devotion and loyalty, doesn't once utter the words 'amazing' or 'fantastic.' Occasionally, Sherlock seems to stop and wait, looking at John searchingly, as if to ask where the commentary is, but John just waits for him to keep going.

It's 1.22 a.m. when Sherlock quietly murmurs, "John, please... I know I left you alone and I'll never forgive myself for that, and I don't expect you to, either. But please just know that I did it for you... John, I-"

"Don't. Don't say anything else, Sherlock."

For a moment, there is a flicker of something strange in Sherlock's eyes, but then the moment is gone.

"It's late. I'm tired, you're tired. We'll discuss all this again tomorrow - er, well, later today, I suppose."

When Sherlock doesn't move, John prompts: "Go to bed, Sherlock. Your room should be just as you left it, more or less. I'm going to go to bed, too."

John stands, stretches, and starts to make his way toward the stairs, and just barely hears Sherlock murmur behind him, "Goodnight, John."

After John reaches his bedroom, he decides that now is the time to make up. He's been remiss lately.

He takes the razor blade in his hand and makes four deep cuts beside one hipbone, then four beside the other. The redness wells up and drips down him, and he watches intently until the bleeding stops.

In the bathroom, after cleaning himself up, John stares at his reflection in the mirror and tries desperately to figure out what he's done to himself and why. He wonders if Sherlock will actually want to stay after he finds out how far gone John really is.

###

_a/n: i hope y'all like this and i also hope you don't mind the occasional cussing in the narration, i had the intention of making it sound more raw/angry but if it's just straight-up distracting, let me know._

_leave a review and tell me how bad i suck, etc., etc._


	3. chapter three

_a/n: this chapter is equal parts silly, fluffy, and angsty, so i hope you like all of those things. angelo makes an appearance, which is always cool, right?_

###

...

finally

the flesh

reflects the

madness within

_a sherlock fanfiction_

###

John knows that Sherlock knows. There's no possible way that he couldn't. He was there when John was angrily getting ready for bed, taking off his clothes, revealing the scarred, disgraceful skin underneath. His scars were the last thing on his mind while he was making a show of ignoring the man and going to bed, but now, John feels sick thinking about it.

He wonders when Sherlock will mention it, or if he will ever mention it. It's not uncommon, in John's experience, for people to see his scars and just pretend they didn't. And he doesn't blame them, either; but he'd rather not live in fear of _that _moment.

With other people, he was always able to be evasive, even lie outright; but he knows he can't fool Sherlock Holmes. And if that moment is going to come, he really doesn't want to see the pity on Sherlock's face.

John _hates _the pity.

###

By the time John wakes up, Sherlock is already up and apparently cooking breakfast, looking right at home save for the fact that he had never cooked breakfast for John before._ Trying to bribe me,_ he thinks. Unfortunately, what appears to be an omelette in the frying pan before Sherlock smells absolutely delicious, so John figures he'll accept the bribe, just this once.

"Morning," Sherlock says brightly. _Too brightly._

"Stop," John grumbles.

Sherlock frowns and desists seasoning the omelette. "Too much pepper?"

"No," John replies, suppressing a smile at Sherlock's genuinely confused expression. "Stop being so... nice. It's... weird."

"Oh," Sherlock mumbles. His frown deepens. "I made breakfast, but if you don't want it-"

John sighs. "Sherlock, just... I've just had quite enough surprises out of you in the past few days, and... if you're really back, then I think _you_ should be back, not some weird, alternate-universe version of you. Understand?"

"I... think so." Sherlock raises the frying pan off the stove and dumps the omelette in the sink. It sizzles dejectedly.

"No!" John shouts, or laughs. "I didn't mean that!" And for the first time in what feels like an eternity, John actually starts to _giggle_. He's giggling like he did on their first case, after they'd been mistaken for a couple thrice, after they'd chased down an innocent taxi patron, after Sherlock had cured John of a psychosomatic limp in just a few hours.

Sherlock is obviously still perplexed, but he begins to laugh along with John, and John can tell that he, too, is thinking about that night, remembering "It's all fine," and "Welcome to London," and "Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs."

They smiled and joked over corpses and crime scenes, and now here they are, laughing like idiots through all the pain and misery of three years apart, tamping down years' worth of suffering and hard feelings and doubt. John loves that they can face a world of chaos and pain and smile about it because they're facing it together.

John is still feeling angry, and he will be for a long time, and he was last week and last night and he is today and he will be tomorrow, but in this moment he isn't feeling much of anything besides the laughter shaking his body and the liveliness flushing his cheeks, and he's feeling like it was just yesterday that he walked into St. Bart's and lent his phone to a madman and blindly, stupidly, thankfully accepted his insane destiny.

###

John had made him go back to Mycroft's (a correct guess on John's part) after thirty minutes of friendly conversation over a breakfast of salvaged eggs.

"I don't know how much longer I'll be able to stand him, John," he had groaned. "Please tell me I won't have to stay there forever."

Sherlock had regarded him with an expression that betrayed his worry.

John had intended to be firm on the subject, but looking at the detective's concerned face softened him up and he joked, "Only if you're going to stop teasing me with delicious food only to destroy it."

Slowly, Sherlock had smiled, one of his genuine smiles, and then he had turned and walked out the door.

Now, John is in the shower, staring at a small blade that sits in the soap dish, deliberating.

_If I do it_, he thinks,_ it will scar. It'll stay there on my skin._

_That is rather the point_, mocks a familiar voice emanating from some dark corner of his mind.

Even though he knows that Sherlock knows, he doesn't want to make things any worse than they already are. He's got enough scars, he's lost enough blood. Sherlock's 'suicide' had been the catalyst of his relapse; now that Sherlock is back, is it really necessary to continue? As a coping mechanism, it had run its course, and it wasn't even that effective to begin with.

He stares at the blade. When it's not in use, it looks so innocent, so faultless; when it's not ripping into his skin, carving his flesh, it looks like an utterly ordinary object. Would it be so bad to just make a single line, perhaps on his thigh, where Sherlock wouldn't see it? _Just one, _he thinks. _Sherlock will never see it. Hell, I'll probably even forget about it pretty quickly._

The negotiation seems to work, and John picks it up, positions it at the very top of his leg.

Doesn't move for a full minute.

John feels all the symptoms of an anxiety attack creeping up on him: he's trembling, his heart is racing, he's breathing heavily. Part of him feels like he's just woken up from a bad dream, but part of him feels like he's not out of nightmare territory yet.

The different voices in his mind are at war; one makes him bargain, makes him think it won't be that bad, _just do it, just fucking do it, you coward_; the other makes him feel guilty, makes him think about consequences, about ugly scars, about years and years of long-sleeved shirts and explanations to lovers and uncomfortable questions with even worse answers.

"Stop it," he says aloud, unsure who he's talking to, whether he's talking to himself, ordering himself to put down the blade, or trying to quiet the bargaining voice or the righteous voice, or perhaps yelling at Sherlock for doing this to him.

John puts the blade back in its original spot, trying with all his might to ignore the part of him that jeers, _you coward, you bloody worthless quitter._

###

He cuts himself shaving, and it may or may not have been an accident.

###

Three days pass, and John is getting restless. Sherlock has been texting him non-stop with his usual declarations of boredom. The texts are also sprinkled with cruel deductions about Mycroft, a few of which make John want to give the man a medal for putting up with his younger brother. Most of John's responses are perfunctory at best.

On the third evening, Sherlock texts John, "Dinner?" and John's heartbeat skitters a little.

Ten minutes later, John texts back, "Starving. Angelo's?"

Immediately, the response comes. "I'll come by Baker Street at 7.30 with a cab."

_Right then_. John looks at the clock: 6.16. Usually, John's dinner-with-Sherlock routine would take half an hour at the most; but something feels so different tonight that he's already in the bathroom by 6.20, cursing himself for acting like a teenager getting ready for prom.

He takes an exceptionally long time with everything, and nervousness is blossoming in his stomach with every passing minute. _It's just Sherlock, it's just dinner, you've done this dozens of times with him before._

He knows something is different this time, though. But he can't quite put his finger on what.

###

The cab ride is mostly silent and slightly awkward - John knows that Sherlock can see his uneasiness from a mile away, and it doesn't help that Sherlock himself looks somewhat nervous too.

Sherlock had texted Angelo prior to his and John's arrival as a mediocre heads-up. As soon as they walk in, Angelo appears out of nowhere, barrels through the restaurant, slaloms around tables of startled patrons, and flings himself at Sherlock and John, effortlessly trapping the two grown men in a bear hug.

John laughs a bit and claps the ardent man clumsily on the back; Sherlock can do little more than give his best effort to not look too alarmed. Eventually, Angelo pulls back but doesn't leave.

He puts his hands on John's shoulders first, smiles fondly, and says, "It's been too long, Doctor Watson. It's good to see you two back."

Angelo immediately turns to Sherlock, looking at the consulting detective with something akin to affection in his eyes - a rare expression to be seen on the faces of people looking at Sherlock Holmes - and says, "I _will _murder you, and I'll gladly go to prison for it."

They chat with Angelo for a bit before the owner seats them at the same table that they always used to sit at, 'romantic' candle included. He gives the two a wink before returning to the back of the restaurant, leaving them alone. Sherlock and John receive their food, and John doesn't hold back from verbally expressing his surprise and pleasure at the fact that Sherlock is actually consuming something.

Sherlock shrugs as he brings the fork to his mouth. "Even transport needs occasional maintenance."

John smirks at 'occasional' and says, "Did you _maintain _it properly while you were gone?"

Internally, he cringes at the way he phrased that; as though Sherlock had just been on a short holiday for the past week rather than presumed dead for three years.

Sherlock gives him a strange look, likely thinking the same thing that John is. "I managed."

"Yeah!" John scoffs irritably. "Barely. Look at you, you're a bag of bones."

"Well, I wasn't eating like _this _every night, but I-"

"Somehow I don't think you were eating every night at all." John's getting more and more agitated and he doesn't know why. There's an idea floating somewhere in the periphery of his mind, an image of Sherlock lying on the cold floor of some abandoned building with track marks on his bare arms, and John knows the image was born from his own imagination but it feels so real that for a moment he mistakes it for a memory.

Suddenly, though, the track marks are replaced by rows and rows of bloody lines; John knows he's fusing worry for his friend with his own psychological issues, but suddenly he wonders how else, along with not eating enough, his friend abused his body when they were apart, with no one to tell him it was wrong, with no one to tell him that they cared.

"John, listen to me. I managed."

"Shut the hell up."

Did Sherlock relapse while he was away? Did he inject cocaine or anything else into his bloodstream because John wasn't there to tell him not to? Part of John thinks he should trust Sherlock more than this, but part of him still holds onto the fact that Sherlock just recently betrayed him in the most grandiose way; what would have stopped him from betraying him like this?

"John?"

John can feel his face getting red and his throat and chest getting tight, his breathing quickening, his hands shaking, the back of his neck sweating, and his eyelids suddenly needing to blink more often.

He feels a sudden weight on top of his clenched left hand and looks down to see that Sherlock has covered his fist with his own palm, his fingers atop John's wrist. Gauging his pulse, the rise in blood pressure, evidence of John's panic. Somehow, John's sleeve has ridden up and he knows Sherlock sees the fading scars running lengthwise from the heel of his hand down.

_Deduce that_, John thinks. _I guess I'm the one who fucked my body up after you left._

"John."

He looks up at the man across from him and sees a look in Sherlock's eye similar to the one he had seen when the man had tried to explain to John his reasoning for faking his death. It was brand new - John had never seen it before his "suicide," not even after the pool. He couldn't tell if it was genuine concern for John and fear for their relationship, or if it was something he had practiced in the mirror during his hiatus so he could get his only friend to soften up. Could be both at the same time.

At some point during John's ruminations, Sherlock had brought his other hand up and now both of his large hands are holding John's one fist. He's still looking at him with those eyes, with that look of combined fear, confusion, sympathy, fucking pity, _affection?, endearment?, friendship?_, but nothing beyond friendship. Sherlock was incapable of anything beyond that, least of all for _John_, he'd made that much abundantly clear when he jumped off a rooftop.

God, his eyes could be so expressive when he willed them to be, which of course he rarely did, because Sherlock dares not emote lest his deductive prowess be compromised. Right now, they look expressive and sad, and John hates them. He hates them. He hates _him_.

"John." His voice is a whisper, so quiet and soft John almost believes he imagined it. "You don't need to worry about me. I ate. I stayed clean. And every time I thought I might not do one of those things, I thought about you."

John feels a thumb stroking his hand, which is slowly unclenching. He's calming slightly, even though he knows Sherlock could be lying, he's calming because some daft part of him still trusts this madman.

After some quiet and soothing circles rubbed into his open palm, the panic ebbs, and Sherlock is all that's left. There is nothing left in the restaurant, nothing left in the world, in fact, except Sherlock bloody Holmes and his damn beautiful eyes and his hands around John's. Minutes pass before Sherlock speaks again, even quieter than before.

"I missed you terribly. Every day."

It strikes John that they hadn't yet said this to each other.

"I missed you too, Sherlock."

John shifts his hand slightly so that it's clasping one of Sherlock's. The detective looks back up at him, almost shyly, John thinks with a smile. His friend smiles back and squeezes his hand.

"People will talk," Sherlock jokes.

John takes a cursory look around the restaurant, noting the other guests. He considers the gossip that will run rampant if, after the world's only consulting detective rises from the dead, he and his blogger are seen at their favorite restaurant holding hands. He knows there are people sitting in this restaurant who will recognize them. He knows how quickly word travels.

"Let them," John says roguishly.

And if Sherlock's hand remains attached to his until the anxiety is gone, if people stare, if people talk, John finds that he doesn't care so much anymore.

###

Sherlock and John stand outside Baker Street, simply staring at the door that says '221B.'

"John?"

"Hm?"

"You said that if I promise I won't ruin any more food I could move back in."

John laughs. "I don't think you can promise me you won't ruin any more food, you and your bloody experiments. Literally, _bloody_. But... I bet we could negotiate something."

Sherlock pauses. "Really?"

"Sure."

For a few moments, there is silence, but Sherlock's mind never rests long. His voice is quiet like it was in Angelo's during John's panic attack when he says, "I'll be better than I was before. I'll be better to you, John."

John's voice is caught in his throat. Somehow, he manages to choke out a few words. "I know you will, Sherlock."

###

Sherlock stays at Mycroft's for one more night; he tells John he will be back by 9.00 a.m. tomorrow morning to begin moving back into 221B.

_Last chance at some privacy for this_, John thinks, and doesn't hesitate for a second to drag the razor across his upper arm.

He gasps when the pain suddenly and unexpectedly spikes. _Too deep. _Sure enough, when he looks at it properly, he sees the blood well up quickly, clinging to his bicep, before it drips down the length of his arm. He reaches for a tissue to stop the blood from dripping onto his sheets, but when he turns back he sees that it's too late, there's already two small red spots on his otherwise perfectly white sheets. A brief string of curses leaves his mouth.

John now feels every pump of blood through his arm, watches it flow from the cut in bursts, dripping down his bicep. He wipes his arm off with tissues. Aside from the more troublesome one, there are seven lines from tonight. John had figured it was his last chance to do this in private, before he would start to run the risk of getting caught, of being deduced.

He knows he should get rid of all the little blades he's stockpiled, the two in his dresser, the one in the shower, the two in the bathroom cupboard. He knows Sherlock has already seen the scars, but that doesn't mean he has to make things worse by keeping his instruments of torture around the flat.

He resolves to throw out any and all razorblades before Sherlock arrives tomorrow morning.

The deepest cut on his arm has stopped bleeding. He picks the razor back up.

_Just one._

###

_a/n: poor john! as always, feel free to point out any and all typos, errors, idiocies, etc.; criticize me, deride me, tear me apart, etc._


	4. chapter four

_a/n: in which mrs. hudson talks too much and john doesn't talk enough._

###

...

finally

the flesh

reflects the

madness within

_a sherlock fanfiction_

###

It's 8.40 a.m. and John knows Sherlock will arrive in twenty minutes. All but one of his blades are in the rubbish bin (he knows he should throw the last out as well, but he's not quite ready for that yet). There are twelve angry red lines on John's bicep from last night, but he covers them with a jumper.

A knock on the door startles John - _is that him? what is he doing? is he early? why is he early?_ - but a friendly "Yoo-hoo!" reveals to him that it's not Sherlock but Mrs. Hudson.

He tells her to come in and she drops a few plates of pastries on the kitchen table before hurriedly tidying the sitting room and even washing the lone plate in the sink.

"Honestly, Mrs. Hudson, you've helped enough. Besides, if this place is too clean, he won't even recognize it. He'll think he walked into the wrong flat," John quips.

She smiles fondly at him. "Oh, dear, I'm so glad to see you two have worked everything out. He cares for you very much, you know. More than he's ever cared for anyone else. He told me so, after you threw him out that first night."

She continues to talk while she dusts a bookshelf, and John isn't sure how to appropriately respond to what she's saying.

"...so upset that you were angry with him, I'd never seen him cry like that." She pauses, ponders. "Never seen him cry at all, in fact." She smiles at John again while picking up a few empty teacups from the table.

John raises an eyebrow at her, tries to change the subject: "Thought you weren't our housekeeper."

She gives him a look that would be a glare if she weren't smiling so much. "Oh, I know, you're going to want to be alone. Don't worry, I can visit Mrs. Turner while you and Sherlock get yourselves sorted."

She winks at him and puts away the cleaned teacups before approaching him. Suddenly, a stern expression crosses her face and she holds up a finger in his face for emphasis.

"You be careful with him, John Watson. He was a _mess_ that night when he thought you weren't going to forgive him. An absolute wreck! All red in the face, running his hands through his hair and saying such things to me. He sat in my kitchen with a cup of tea and stared at the wall for almost an hour." She softened slightly, and her voice quieted. "He told me he would prefer to have never met you at all than to love you and then lose you like that. He was devastated."

John has to shoo her away or he'll have another panic attack. "I know, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be good to him," he says, remembering Sherlock's words outside the flat last night. He's talking as though he's about to propose marriage to Sherlock rather than bring some boxes of clothing and chemistry equipment upstairs, but there's no reasoning with people who think they're a couple.

She smiles affectionately, the stern look gone, and gives him a quick hug. "I know you will, dear," she says, and for a moment John wonders if she had heard his and Sherlock's conversation outside 221B, but before he can raise suspicion, she's walking out and calling "You two have fun!" over her shoulder.

The door closes and John is alone with a featherduster and his thoughts.

The idea that this self-proclaimed sociopath had said he loved John - in front of Mrs. Hudson, no less, who extrapolates more about the two of them than anyone - is... interesting. _Shocking. Terrifying._

It's 8.54 a.m. and John is sitting on the couch, methodically replaying every conversation of the past week, scouring every spoken word and every facial expression for evidence of Mrs. Hudson's radical claim that Sherlock loves John. Or perhaps for evidence of another idea - that _John_ loves _Sherlock_.

Or course, John knows he loves Sherlock; he just doesn't know how. Or how Sherlock loves him, or even _if_ he really does. Hell, their relationship to each other had always been so complicated and confusing and so unlike anything John had ever felt that he never knew how to describe-

This train of thought is interrupted by a knock on the door.

For a moment, he is paralyzed. Nervous thoughts race through his head - _is Mrs. Hudson right? if she is, what will happen? what will he do? oh God, what will I do?_ - but he presses them out of his mind.

He gets up and opens the front door to see Sherlock shifting his weight from one foot to the other and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He makes eye contact with John and smiles, looking far more anxious than John is used to seeing him.

"Hello, John."

"Hey, Sherlock."

They stand for a moment, neither moving nor speaking.

"Couple of boxes downstairs," Sherlock states.

"Right. Okay."

###

The next morning, John finds a single ear in the refrigerator.

###

A week goes by with surprising ease. They don't fight, they don't shout, Sherlock doesn't sulk, and John only cuts once. Give or take a few severed heads, the two settle relatively quickly into their old habits, and by the eighth day John can hardly remember that there was ever a time when things were different.

(No, that's not true. He remembers that time all too well.)

It's on the ninth morning at 7.33 a.m. that the moment John's been waiting for finally comes. They're sitting at the table, John eating a quick breakfast and Sherlock distractedly reading something on his new laptop.

Sherlock clears his throat twice before speaking. "John. I need you to tell me about the scars."

John stops chewing and looks up at him.

Sherlock makes eye contact, and his expression is calculatedly empty. "Some of it I can deduce, but an incomplete knowledge of this is not sufficient for me, and aside from that, I need to know you trust me."

John swallows, doesn't respond, gets up from his chair and goes to put on his jacket.

"John."

_Jesus_. "Later, Sherlock. I - I'm gonna be late for work."

Sherlock doesn't press, and John slips out of the flat as quickly as he can.

###

John really is late for work, but Sarah takes one look at his miserable face and decides not to comment on it.

He is competent but distracted with his patients, and he spends most of his time trying to come up with ways to delay going home for as long as possible. Maybe he'll meet Greg for a pint, or do the shopping and have another row with another chip-and-pin machine.

Ultimately, he elects to face his fears and get a cab back to Baker Street once his shift at the surgery is over.

Logically, he shouldn't be this nervous. He knew this moment had to come eventually, had to come _quickly_, in fact, because Sherlock isn't one to beat around the bush. And neither is John, so why is he just barely averting a panic attack right now?

By the time he's inside the flat, he feels his throat getting far too tight. He sees Sherlock sitting at the table conducting some sort of horrific experiment, as per usual. He tries to say 'hello' but the words get stuck in his throat and he resigns himself to simply going into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea.

Sherlock doesn't try to break the silence, and for several minutes they go about their business trying desperately to avoid both each other's eyes and the elephant in the room.

John goes to sit on the couch and watch telly, and Sherlock follows him and sits next to him. Still they don't speak, nor do they laugh at the jokes on the television or even really watch it at all.

When the show is over (John doesn't even know what it was), Sherlock clears his throat once, twice, three times before saying in that newfound quiet voice, "Please, John. Talk to me."

###

_a/n: it's possible that the wait for the next chapter will be longer than usual because i've got some stuff going on in Real Life that take priority over fanfiction u kno. i'll try to get it up as soon as possible but i am not a prophet and thus i cannot predict future events_

_as usual, point out any abominable errors that i've made, i beg of you!_


	5. chapter five

_a/n: this is kinda short but i'm writing more as we speak so do not fret friends_

###

...

finally

the flesh

reflects the

madness within

_a sherlock fanfiction_

###

_"Please, John. Talk to me."_

###

John forces himself to look over at Sherlock, who is by now curled into a ball at the other end of the couch, and he regrets it immediately.

Sherlock's eyes are filled with emotion in a way that John hasn't seen since the first night he tried to come back. John tries to look away but somehow finds himself unable.

"Sherlock, I… I don't know how to talk about this."

He looks relieved at the fact that John intends to try. "Have you ever spoken about it with anyone before?"

"Yes. Sure."

"Why is it different with me?"

John sighs and shifts so that he is facing his friend more directly. "It's… you're my best friend, Sherlock. I hate that you have to… see this part of me."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't you think that being your best friend would make me more likely to see it than anyone else?"

"Well, yes. I suppose. But it's not that. It's - it's embarrassing, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks genuinely puzzled for several moments before having a minor epiphany. "You see this part of yourself as a weakness. A fault. You're upset because you didn't want me to know about it, because you thought I would be cruel to you about it."

"No. Yes. Not exactly."_ Why is this so difficult?_ "I didn't want you to know about it because I thought it would… disappoint you."

Sherlock ponders that for several moments. "Idiot."

John huffs. "Yeah. Yes, definitely."

"No, not about the cutting. You're an idiot to think it would disappoint me."

"Oh, come on! I'm not daft, Sherlock." John can't tell if he is angry or embarrassed or both, but something is making his blood boil. "I know exactly how much this disappoints people. Hell, it disappoints _me_."

Sherlock looks as though he's about to retort, but John cuts him off. "Why do we have to talk about this?"

"Because, John, I-"

"I'm really not in the mood for this. I'm - tired and I don't… just, why? Why do you want to talk about this so much?" John spits out. _Anger and embarrassment both, for sure._

"Because I care, John!" Sherlock shouts. John freezes up as he continues. "Because I've _always_ cared about you, ever since you shot that bloody stupid cabbie or maybe even before. Because you're the only person - do you hear me, the _only_ person on this entire godforsaken planet that I can bring myself to care about. That's why we have to talk about this."

Sherlock's mouth snaps shut, and he looks as regretful as if he had told him something terrible or cruel. John's mouth, on the other hand, drops open, only slightly, but enough that his surprise was clear.

###

_"He cares for you very much, you know. More than he's ever cared for anyone else."_

###

"I can't do this right now," John says as he rises off the couch. "I need to-"

"John Watson, if you try to walk out of this room, I swear on my own life that I will tackle you to the ground." John turns around and sees that he's risen off the couch too; they stare each other down. Sherlock's expression is cold and hard like a diamond; his voice is sharp. _Clearly attempting to invoke his dominant side._

John, of course, is not having it. "Yeah? Go ahead, genius; try it. See how that works out for you."

He doesn't move, though. Neither does the detective. They stand there and have a staring contest, each implicitly telling the other to swing first.

John expects Sherlock to do what Sherlock always does. He expects him to push every last one of John's buttons, to be stubborn and taunting, to speak his mind and not give a damn about the consequences. He expects him to push John and push him and push him until their fury burns hot.

But something unexpected happens. Sherlock blinks and he is a different man, a sad man, a tired man. He ages ten years in a single second. He sighs and drops to the couch, putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

_What… just happened?_, John thinks to himself. "Sh-Sherlock?"

John hates himself._ Oh God, what have I done? The man's just told me that he cares about me more than anyone else in the world, a confession that was obviously incredibly difficult for him, and I tried to run away from him. I told him to go ahead and try to fight me._

A shuddering exhale leaves Sherlock's lips, and something clicks in John's head. _I've hurt him._

John realizes that all of his friend's walls are down, that he broke them down and then stomped all over them. He realizes he's seeing Sherlock's heart, and he realizes he's made a terrible mistake.

"Oh, God, Sherlock-" John feels like he's choking. He sits down next to Sherlock, the sides of their bodies pressed together. He remembers what his friend did for him that night at Angelo's, and tries to gather Sherlock's hands in his.

"I'm a complete arse, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I just - I don't know how to do this."

Sherlock looks up at him, face flushed_, like Mrs. Hudson was talking about_, John thinks. "You think I do, John? I've never _felt_ like this before, I have no idea what I'm doing or what I should be doing."

###

_"You're the only person on this entire godforsaken planet that I can bring myself to care about."_

###

John thought his stomach had finished dropping ages ago, but it drops again, lower, somehow. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm an absolute twat, please-"

"Why are you trying to comfort _me_?" He sounds positively incredulous. "I might be emotionally deficient but you're the one who's - who's-" Sherlock doesn't even try to utter the words.

"I know. I know." John doesn't know what else to say. _Why is this so hard?_

He doesn't let go of his friend's hands, and they sit there for God knows how long in near silence, interspersed with Sherlock sniffling and sighing and John clearing his throat.

Then, "How old were you when you started? Some of those look quite old."

"Yeah. I think I was fourteen when I started."

Sherlock visibly braces himself. "Some of them… don't look so old."

John is quiet.

"It was my being gone, wasn't it? That's what made you start. Again."

He sounds so remorseful and somber that it breaks John's heart. Throat too tight for him to speak, John leans into his friend and wraps his arms around him, finally letting go of his hands.

"I wish to God I could take it all back, John," Sherlock whispers. "I wish I could have had the - the good sense to leave Moriarty alone and just live life, in London, with you. None of it would have happened if I'd stopped prying like he told me to. I'm so sorry, John, this is all my fault…" Sherlock breaks off and presses his face into John's hair, exhales shakily.

###

_"I know I left you alone and I'll never forgive myself for that, but please just know that I did it for you."_

###

"This isn't your fault. This is on me, Sherlock. It's called _self_-harm, after all," he tries to joke (though it falls flat). He refuses to acknowledge the fact that, yes, it was Sherlock's 'suicide' that made him start again.

"No more, John. Please, for the love of God, no more."

"Alright, Sherlock. No more."

"Best not make me repeat myself. You know how much I hate it."

"I know."

###

_a/n: wow that was almost like some sort of happy ending! strange?_


	6. chapter six

_a/n: *rose from titanic voice* it's been eighty-four years..._

_ahem. sorry if it kind of took me longer than it usually does to update. i've got a bunch of stuff 'n' things going on that are more important than writing fanfiction (shocking, i know), and also i'm just pretty lazy and couldn't really think of anything to do with this chapter so._

_but here it is now! hope you like it! *exaggerated winky face*_

###

...

finally

the flesh

reflects the

madness within

_a sherlock fanfiction_

###

He wasn't even going to do it, but he can't help noticing that the blade he usually kept in his bedside drawer was now gone. Sherlock probably took it while he was at work.

A small, vindictive part of him wants to shout at Sherlock for the invasion of his privacy, but he has neither the energy to do it nor the desire to find out what Sherlock would say if he did. Besides, he knows Sherlock's intentions. It's not like the man was hosting some chemical nightmare of an experiment on his bed; he just doesn't want John to hurt himself. So he puts it out of his mind.

###

If nothing else, John can say this for Sherlock: he doesn't walk on eggshells.

There are no plaintive looks or emotional outbursts; he doesn't try to be exceptionally nice to John, and frankly, John is grateful.

With the exception of the missing blade, the two are more or less back to normal. John goes to work and comes home, Sherlock complains that he is slowly expiring from boredom; they even manage to get a case from Lestrade, with some prodding from Mycroft.

Things aren't perfect - John has a couple bad days at the surgery, and Harry Watson's latest girlfriend likes drama a lot more than John does, but hey, that's life, isn't it? John refuses to dwell on it all. He refuses to get upset. He refuses. He refuses.

###

The case turns out to be more than they bargained for. Initially, Sherlock was actually rather irritated because he dismissed it as "dull" and "obvious"; but days pass and more corpses turn up and they are no closer to catching the killer than they were in the beginning.

John knows it's getting on his friend's nerves. The detective is touchy and volatile, bordering on manic. He's getting that look in his eyes - the one that tells John he's in danger, not in danger of someone else but in danger of himself. In danger, perhaps, of relapsing.

_Ridiculous, of course_, John thinks. _Sherlock wouldn't._

But every time Sherlock snaps at him over nothing, every time he snaps at Mrs. Hudson over nothing, there is a nagging suspicion at the back of John's head, a voice that tells him _he's going to do it. You know he is._ It sounds just like the voice that used to tell John to cut. _He's going to be weak, just like you were. Just like you are._

No. Sherlock's strong, he got clean once and stayed clean. He wouldn't give that up just for one case, certainly not for a case that he'd called dull.

But John hasn't been this worried about Sherlock since Irene Adler, since Moriarty, since… well. Sherlock is a better man now than he ever was, for many reasons. He isn't going to relapse. He isn't. He isn't.

At least, that's what John thinks until his friend comes home one night from 'research' smelling like cigarettes.

John walks past him as he stalks about the flat grumbling unintelligibly and catches a whiff of smoke. He freezes, shoulders tense, and closes his eyes in an attempt to calm himself.

He was out in London on the streets, his coat probably just smells like smoke because he was around people who were smoking.

John turns around. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock whirls around, mid-deduction. "_What_, John?"

There's definitely cigarettes on his breath. Sherlock is in intimidation mode, looming over John and visibly angry about something. _He's challenging me, _John thinks_. He's daring me to call him out. He's daring me to take the bait._

John doesn't take the bait. Instead, he gives Sherlock the most disappointed look he can muster and goes back to the kitchen to finish making dinner.

Sherlock huffs behind him, and John can tell he's affronted by this turn of events. He figures if Sherlock wants to start something, it's up to him to start something. He's not going to play this game with that madman.

He makes pasta for dinner, and (in an attempt to affect normality) brings Sherlock a plate. The detective is curled into a defensive ball on the sofa, his coat thrown on the floor at just such an angle to reveal a pack of Pall Malls coming out of the left pocket.

John drops the plate onto the coffee table and it clatters loudly. Sherlock doesn't flinch.

###

By 7.15 a.m. when John wakes the next morning, Sherlock is already gone. Work takes John's mind off of things for a little while, until he begins to receive texts. Faithful as he is, John reads every one of them rather than just ignoring them like he wanted to.

The first simply reads: "My behavior last night was inappropriate."

_God damn right it was_, John thinks, but doesn't respond. The next one reads: "I was childish and I hurt you. I am entirely to blame."

Still, John refuses to respond. Hours pass until Sherlock's next text, one which must have been very difficult for him to send: "I am trying to apologize, John. I am trying to ask for forgiveness."

John puts his phone back in his pocket and greets his next patient. The next time his phone buzzes, he ignores it.

###

John comes home at 6.42 p.m. and plops a few bags of groceries down on the kitchen counter. At first, he doesn't even notice Sherlock's catlike form lingering in the sitting room, but Sherlock has a way of making himself known when he wants to.

"John."

The doctor nearly jumps out of his skin. "Jesus!" He whirls around and sees the detective hovering just over his shoulder, looking somber. "Warn a bloke before you you sneak up behind him like that, yeah?" John shakes the fright off and goes back to putting away the groceries.

"John, you didn't reply to any of my text messages. I know you received them."

"Yeah, I did," John says dismissively.

Sherlock waits a moment, before noting, "You only ignore my text messages when you're exceptionally angry with me."

John sighs. Right now he just wants to put away the shopping, yet Sherlock insists on obstructing him in even the simplest of matters. John has to physically move the man out of the way just to put the milk in the fridge.

For the time being, Sherlock doesn't say anything more, just orbits around John as he moves about the kitchen and into the sitting room. The doctor resigns himself to a night of penetrating stares and tense silences, but he refuses to budge first. Again, he figures if Sherlock wants to start something, it's up to him to start something.

Several hours pass and the silence between them remains undisturbed, the only sounds in 221B being the telly and the teapot's whistling. Finally, around 9.30 p.m., John goes to get ready for bed. He has an early day tomorrow and he knows he'll lie awake long enough trying to reconcile both his anger and his guilt.

John goes to the bathroom, and for the first time in weeks he misses his blades. He misses the steel biting into his skin, drawing blood, reminding him that he was alive and making him forget about everything else, just for a little while. He wishes to God he could have that feeling right now, that sort of drifting half-consciousness that knew only the purity of blood and pain and nothing of the complexity of (as Sherlock would put it) _sentiment_.

But John had gotten rid of most of his blades, and Sherlock had taken the liberty of getting rid of the last one. Besides, the man would know immediately if John did anything to himself tonight, and that would do nothing more than up the tensions that are already running high around Baker Street.

Oh, well. John is tired. It had been a long day (week) and he needs as much sleep as he can get. He leaves the bathroom and goes to put on pyjamas, and although he unconsciously glances at his bedside table drawer before he settles in for sleep, it doesn't mean anything.

###

At around 2.12 a.m., John's door creaks open, and he instinctively snaps into army mode. He sits up in bed and begins to reach for his gun in the drawer of his bedside table, until his eyes adjust to the light let in by the open door and he recognizes the silhouette standing just inside his room.

"Bloody hell - Sherlock!"

Sherlock Holmes walks over to him, naked from the waist up and wearing only a pair of pants. He looks like he had tried going to sleep but been unsuccessful; his eyes have bags underneath them and he looks tired, but his hair is mussed and he's wearing what he would normally wear to bed.

Sherlock doesn't answer, just continues to stare at his flatmate. John flings back the covers and goes to stand in front of Sherlock.

"What the hell are you doing in my room in the middle of the night, you mad bastard?!" he demands.

"My previous attempts at apologizing to you proved unsuccessful, so I decided I needed to try again." Sherlock says it as if sneaking up on his best mate in the middle of the night was the most natural way in the world to 'try again'. _God, he really is mad._

"Well, how about you try again in the _morning_, hm?"

"You're going to work early in the morning, I wouldn't be able to catch you; and even if I tried, you would just tell me to try again in the evening because I'll make you late, and then in the evening you would tell me you're too tired and to try again the next morning. It's a vicious cycle, John. Let's just end it here."

John sighs and rubs his face with both hands. "Alright, then. Go on. Do it."

Sherlock remains silent for several moments, and John realizes he is waiting for him to look at him. He removes his hands from his face and looks up at the detective. He hadn't realized how close they were standing until now, when he has to crane his neck in order to make eye contact with the man.

"John," Sherlock says softly. "I am sorry for my immature and insensitive behavior last night, and quite frankly the past week as well."

There is a moment of quiet, then John replies, "Right. Anything else?"

Sherlock gives him a quizzical look. "Should there be?"

John laughs humorlessly. "No, guess not. Well, I need my sleep, Sherlock, so-"

"If you wish for me to say something else, John, just say so. Don't be coy."

"Now you're just getting on my nerves."

Sherlock, too, is growing impatient, it seems. "What is it? What more do you want?" he demands loudly.

"You made me promise, you hypocrite!" John shouts.

They simultaneously remember that it's two in the morning and Mrs. Hudson is sleeping, and they also realize that they're within mere centimeters of each other. They both take a step back and try to calm themselves. John looks away, embarrassed at himself for losing his temper so easily, but he can feel Sherlock's eyes boring holes into the side of his head; Sherlock never did know when to back down.

Quietly, now, the detective reopens the dialogue. "You're angry with me about the cigarettes because you think I'm being a hypocrite?" For a moment, he appears genuinely confused, but then a look of realization crosses his face as he deduces John's words. "Ah. I made you promise me you wouldn't harm yourself, and then I went and harmed _my_self, in a way, which you perceived as rather… sanctimonious on my part."

John sighs. He is tired. He wants to go to sleep. It's two in the morning and his insane flatmate is standing in front of him almost completely naked and deducing his anger.

"It was just the case. That's all it was. The case was going stale again and I ran out of nicotine patches and I just needed to be able to _think_." Sherlock's voice is quiet and soft, like he's trying to comfort John.

"Sherlock, I just… I don't want you to hurt yourself any more than you want me to hurt myself."

"Millions of people smoke, John. It's not quite the same thing," he insists softly.

"I know. I know it's not. At least, not to you. But it is to me."

John looks away again, still embarrassed at himself. Sherlock ponders his statement for several moments, then says, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll throw away the cigarettes, and I won't buy any more."

"Ah. Okay." John nods in relief. The two of them stand awkwardly for a minute, neither entirely sure what to do or say now. Finally, John says, "Well, then, get out of here. I need some shut-eye." He climbs back into bed and pulls the covers back up to his chest.

Sherlock nods, stands up, and cracks his back. He looks thoughtful for a few seconds, and then determined, until he walks around to the other side of John's bed. John doesn't realize what he's doing until it's too late.

"Sherlock, what are you - oi!"

Sherlock climbs into John's bed and pulls the covers up, rolling onto his side. "Goodnight, John," he says sleepily - _hell, I didn't even know he could _get _sleepy_ - and then closes his eyes.

John has to lie there for a moment to collect himself. _Sherlock Holmes is in my bed. At the same time that I am._ It wasn't the first time the world's only consulting detective had slept in his bed. Sherlock had told him once that he would sometimes lie down in John's room while John was at work, just for a change of scenery from his couch. He'd said simply moving to a different spot in the flat could stimulate his thoughts enough for him to form a conclusion on whatever problem he was currently chipping away at.

John, of course, had rolled his eyes in exasperation and asked why the man couldn't just move to his own bed, for God's sake, and Sherlock had smiled that smile that generally meant 'you are such an idiot, John.' And neither man had brought it up since, and John had simply accepted it as one of Sherlock's quirks.

But Sherlock had never slept in John's bed while John was sleeping in John's bed.

Now, the man is curled up on his side, facing John, with the blankets coming up to his abdomen, leaving his upper body completely bare. And John is lying on his back, ramrod straight and tense, trying to reconcile this latest in Boundaries Crossed by Sherlock Holmes.

"Shut up. Stop thinking so loudly and go to sleep, John. And turn off that damned light."

John giggles because it was so utterly _Sherlock _to say that at a time when John is practically hyperventilating here. He leans over and flicks off the lamp on his bedside table, and then he rolls over onto his side, facing Sherlock, and tries his best to stop thinking so loudly.

After a few minutes, Sherlock begins to snore, and John still lies awake.

_When did we get to this point? What is this, right now? What are we doing? What is _he _doing?_

A thousand thoughts and doubts swirl around in John's head as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

###

When John wakes in the morning, Sherlock is gone. For a moment, he feels almost abandoned, until he notices a note that Sherlock left on the pillow:

_I told you once, John, and I'll tell you again: change of scenery._  
_Breakthrough on the case, went to Scotland Yard to inform Lestrade._  
_Should be back soon - if not, have been kidnapped._  
_- SH_

John laughs. Perhaps the man's motivations for sleeping in John's bed weren't nearly as wily as he'd previously thought.

In reality, he knows that Sherlock's motivations are seldom so clear-cut, and that he'll soon find out that he was actually conducting an experiment of some kind, perhaps gauging John's response to his overtures, data to be later used to some nefarious end.

But he's going to be late for work, and he can't afford to be distracted today. So he gets dressed, grabs a quick breakfast, and goes outside to catch a taxi, feeling surprisingly well-rested for as little sleep as he got.

###

_a/n: oh those crazy kids. 3_

_to be entirely honest, i didn't proofread this particular chapter very carefully so if you guys see any typos or mistakes or just strange things that don't make any sense, please let me know, as always._


	7. chapter seven

_a/n: listen to "arrival of the birds" by cinematic orchestra while reading this_

###

...

finally

the flesh

reflects the

madness within

_a sherlock fanfiction_

###

To John's surprise, Sherlock more or less keeps his promise about not smoking anymore. He doesn't, for the rest of the week, smell any cigarettes on the man, or find them anywhere around the flat, or otherwise discover any evidence that Sherlock had reneged on his promise.

Sherlock seems strange in the days after their... sleepover (John has no idea how to mentally refer to that night). He's quieter, softer, far less argumentative. He's still very obviously Sherlock, he still doesn't try to walk on eggshells with John or baby him, but he's been touching John more. Innocently, of course, but touching him nonetheless.

They always touched each other, perhaps more than the average pair of mates in London, but John never minded. It was nice, sometimes, when Sherlock grabbed him to make him pay attention to something, or put his coat back on as he shoved John back out the door to run him an errand, or occasionally laid out on the couch when John was sitting there and throwing his legs across his lap. John never saw it as rude or invasive, and he often welcomed it.

_I still do_, he thinks. _It's just strange._

Now, John will be fixing lunch, and Sherlock will come into the kitchen and start talking about the case or some idiot he met at the Yard, and he would just stand far enough inside John's personal space to brush his arm, or his leg. Sherlock had always stood close to him when he was getting very intense, but never with such freedom and abandon as he's been doing lately.

It used to be a matter of urgency, necessity, a need to make John pay attention to him. Now, it's casual, friendly, quietly intimate.

John's never had a friendship like this before. Most of his mates were rugby players, far too butch to even consider purposefully brushing legs. In the army, it was best to avoid such gestures - camaraderie was encouraged, but never intimacy. Intimacy just meant that much more pain when you lost them.

He doesn't want to think about the time before Sherlock came back. He doesn't want to think about what could happen if Sherlock ever - intentionally or unintentionally - left again. And hell, this newfound closeness might be strange, but it's also pretty nice.

For now, John figures, he'll let it be. He won't question, he won't overthink. Sherlock had always told him he thought too loud, anyway.

###

It's 9.49 p.m., and John is on the couch trying to enjoy a movie. Sherlock is on the other end of the couch making it nigh impossible for this to happen.

"Do you ever get tired of critiquing every little detail?" John asks in exasperation after Sherlock points out an inconsistency in the film's storyline.

"Never, John. You must know that by now," he replies, as matter-of-fact as ever.

"Right, of course, how silly of me," John grumbles to himself as he misses yet another bit of (probably crucial) dialogue between the protagonist and the evil supervillain.

Sherlock notes the villain's stupidity in taking the time to reveal his master plan to the protagonist; John cries, "Oh, for the love of..." and the cycle begins again.

The two go back and forth like this for most of the rest of the movie, and by the end of the movie John can't tell if he's furious at Sherlock for insisting on ruining his enjoyment of anything and everything or if he's just laughing because it really was a terrible movie anyway.

Somehow, during the course of their bickering, Sherlock managed to move from the end of the couch (where he had been curled up in a defiant and pointedly-not-watching-the-film ball) to the middle of the couch, to lightly pressed up against John's side. John can't tell which is strangest - that this escaped his notice until now, that Sherlock Holmes is practically cuddling with him, or that he's letting the man.

It's all very strange. But still pretty nice. So he won't question, he won't overthink.

The end credits are rolling, and Sherlock clears his throat three times before speaking.

"John, I have a request."

Slightly sleepy, slightly dreamy, John replies, "Mmm?"

The detective seems to take a deep breath. "It was very... beneficial to me, in regards to the case, when I slept in your room. Change of scenery, you see."

"I see."

"Well, I was hoping you might allow me to... share similar sleeping arrangements with you tonight."

John turns and makes eye contact with his friend, who appears as nervous as Sherlock Holmes ever does. For a moment, he just looks and looks and looks at this man, this self-proclaimed sociopath, asking to share his bed.

Of course, he claims it's for the case, but John thinks (would like to think) that that's not the whole truth. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking, but Sherlock only ever gets this nervous when emotional matters are involved. If it were solely and explicitly for a case, he wouldn't even ask John's permission ─ he would just do it, and ask for forgiveness later. And John, as always, would give it to him. But this is not the case. Sherlock is asking him,_ John, I was hoping you might allow me to share your bed tonight._

John's not sure what to think of that. He doesn't know how he feels. He's probably going to regret all this later.

But he does what he always does when Sherlock is involved.

"Sure," he replies, and tension visibly drains from Sherlock's shoulders. "Let me just get all washed up and ready for bed."

###

John is just climbing into bed when Sherlock appears in the doorway, looking far more modest than he was last time (he's actually wearing pyjamas now) and leaning against the jamb. He still looks awkward, like he doesn't know how to proceed from here. John sets him at ease by saying "Come on, you berk."

Sherlock smirks and pushes off the doorjamb, walking quickly toward the bed. He gets in on the other side and settles in, turning towards John and pulling the covers up to his abdomen.

John doesn't really know what to say. He's never felt so awkward, but then again, he's never had a friendship like this. A friendship that pushes boundaries, a friendship _without _boundaries, even.

He settles for humor, or at least the attempt.

"You'd better have a damn fine epiphany tomorrow morning," he says.

He can practically hear Sherlock smirk. "I'll do my best, John. You know how temperamental those things are."

John turns over to face the wall. Part of him wants to say 'good night', part of him knows Sherlock would find that incredibly pedestrian.

It's almost dead silent. The only noises in the small bedroom are their inhales and exhales, as well as some of London's city sounds leaking in.

John lies awake for what could pass as either hours or seconds, but eventually, he drifts off to sleep. In the periphery of his mind, he is aware that Sherlock is already snoring.

###

When John wakes in the morning at 8.22 a.m., he's immediately and acutely aware of someone's eyes on him.

The only realistic option, of course, is Sherlock.

He turns over quickly, slightly startled, to see that Sherlock is indeed staring at him, and appears to have been doing so for an amount of time.

"Morning," John grumbles. "Enjoying the view?"

"Immensely," Sherlock replies drily, continuing to stare unabashedly.

John waits several moments for him to stop looking, sighs when he doesn't, and gets out of bed. "Do you mind?" he asks sarcastically, going to use the bathroom.

"Not at all," Sherlock says, and John can't really tell how serious the man is being.

When he comes back, he lies down on top of the covers, intending to just have a lie-in for a while since he doesn't have to go to work today. The world's only consulting detective, however, has set his thoroughly unnerving gaze on John and doesn't appear to have any desire to lift it anytime soon. So he just closes his eyes and lets it happen. _Seems to be recurring theme with this man_, he thinks to himself. _Bastard_.

John feels something brushing lightly on his forearm. He moves to flick it away, and is surprised when his hand meets Sherlock's.

He opens his eyes and looks at the man. "What are... why are you touching my arm?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, just moves his hand back to John's forearm. John looks down and sees the man's long, thin fingers tracing one of the largest scars on John's arm. It's prominent; it looks like one of the cuts from just after Sherlock's 'suicide'.

John freezes up. He wants to move, he wants to shove Sherlock's arm away, he wants to at least tell him to knock it off, but he finds he can't. He doesn't know how.

Sherlock appears utterly transfixed. The man hardly even blinks. He just stares at the line and feathers his fingers over it as light as can be, like it's something precious. Like it's not _disgusting_.

There's a lump in John's throat, but not, apparently, in Sherlock's.

"This was from right after I jumped. Within days." He looks at John now. "It was deep. You didn't mean for it to be so deep. You just wanted to remind yourself what it was like. You wanted to feel a pure and uncomplicated pain, not a pain like the one you felt when I jumped."

John closes his eyes, braces himself for the whirlwind of deductions that's surely coming his way.

After about thirty seconds of utter silence, he opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock again.

Sherlock isn't deducing anything, he isn't speaking, he hardly even appears fully conscious. He's just rubbing his thumb over a few of the deeper scars on John's arm, quietly learning their lines. He doesn't even look up at John, just continues to touch him.

###

_a/n: ok soo….. i like cuddly sherlock AND I KNOW It'S PROBABLY REALLY OUT OF CHARACTER BUT I DON'T EVEN CARE ONE LITTLe SINGLE BIT. I JUST DON'T GIVE A DAMN. _

_**this story is going on a short hiatus as of now, but i promise it will be over soon. thanks for reading!**_


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